


Going to California

by heismyfirstolive (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pre-Series, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, bro feelings, john being a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:14:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/heismyfirstolive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam leaves for Stanford, and Dean can't bring himself to hate him for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going to California

**Author's Note:**

> title and quote from "going to california" by led zeppelin, which is sad and strangely apt

_“Made up my mind to make a new start, going to California with an aching in my heart”_

DEAN

It was a balmy summer’s night in some backwater town that Dean couldn’t remember the name of, and they were cooped up in a ramshackle house that offered the cheapest rent they could find.

They were looking for a case, their last hunt having been over a month ago. Dean was restless; it had been too long since he had held the cold metal of a gun or a knife in his hand, too long since he had felt the satisfaction of killing something nasty.

John and Sam had been fighting a lot more recently. They had a way of getting under each other’s skin that never failed to cause conflict, and being stuck in such close quarters just exacerbated things. Dean had given up trying to stand between them, instead choosing to get in the Impala and drive to the town’s solitary bar, where he’d drink just enough to quell the nausea in his stomach, but not too much that he wasn’t able to drive back.

John and Sam fought about stupid things – the next case, the last case, what to watch on TV – and Dean couldn’t deny that it hurt to see the two people he cared about the most being so vicious towards each other. He felt like they were all balanced precariously on a precipice, like one word said in the wrong way could send them tumbling. The point of no return.

That night, Sam and John were particularly fractious; they bickered all through dinner as though Dean wasn’t actually sat at the table with them, glancing between them with sad eyes. Dean felt like screaming. Or disappearing.

“Sam, did you check for cases in Illinois yet?”

They were sat in the living room now, a football game between two teams they’d never heard of playing quietly in the background. John was drinking, had been all night, and he stared at the floor as he spoke to Sam.

“Yes, Dad. I told you, there’s nothing,” Sam bit out, fists clenching despite the relative banality of the request. Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes and wondering when exactly his life had turned to shit.

“Maybe you should check again.” John’s voice was louder this time, eyes raised and glaring hard at Sam.

“Guys, c’mon, let’s just watch the game.” Dean knew his attempt at defusing the situation would likely be pointless. They were clearly spoiling for a fight.

“There’s nothing in fucking Illinois, okay?” Sam was standing now, towering over his father with jaw and fists clenched, and his voice was almost a shout. Dean pleaded silently that one of them would give up soon.

“Don’t you raise your voice to me, son.” John stood too, albeit unsteadily, and Dean could see the fury in his eyes.

“Would you stop telling me what to do? I’m 18, Dad. Start treating me with a little fucking respect.” John visibly recoiled at Sam’s words, which were spat out forcefully like they’d been building up behind his teeth for months.

“You want to talk about respect? How about having a little respect for your father? I raised you, Sam. I could have left you and Dean with no one, fucked off and done this alone, but instead I cared for you,” John’s voice was barely more than a growl, and Dean was ashamed to admit that it terrified him.

“Bullshit, Dad. That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard! You have never had our best interests at heart, all you ever cared about was finding Mom’s killer. You barely raised us at all.” Sam closed the gap between him and his father, and threw his words in John’s face, index finger pressed hard at the other man’s chest. “We would’ve been better off if you had left us behind.”

John’s arm twitched like he wanted to throw a punch, so Dean jumped up and pushed his way between them. He gripped Sam by his shoulders and looked up into his eyes, seeing the first angry tears threatening to spill over.

“Sammy, please. Don’t do this, just walk away, man.” Dean knew that reasoning with his dad at this point would be futile, his alcohol-fuelled rage already boiling too hot.

“Don’t deny that what I’m saying is true, Dean. You’re just too scared to admit it.” Dean’s hands clenched around his brother’s shoulders, anguish welling up inside him, almost consuming him, because Sam was right. John had been a sorry excuse for a father, regardless of how good his intentions were. But Sam was also right about Dean being too scared to say anything about it. He could face ghosts, vampires, fucking werewolves, but his own father terrified him to the point that he felt physically sick.

“Dean, stay out of this.” His father bit out the words around clenched teeth, and Dean swore he could feel John’s anger rolling at his back in waves. “This is between me and Sam.”

Dean stepped back, looking at both men, uncontrolled in their anger, and thought that maybe tonight would be when they finally went over the edge.

Dean watched, helpless, as they threw vitriol at each other, their words like weapons. Sam argued that John was too controlling, demanded too much obedience for a man who had done nothing to deserve it. John shouted back his usual excuses; that he did the best he could with what he had, that he just wanted Sam and Dean to be safe, that he loved them and they were the only things that really mattered to him.

“God, when will you realise that loving something doesn’t mean shit, Dad? You can care about us until your head explodes, but if you treat us like crap then it doesn’t mean a fucking thing.” Sam’s shoulders slumped as some of his anger left him, replaced by hopelessness. Dean could feel it too, the bleak tragedy of their lives suffocating him until he felt like he was drowning.

John breathed out and suddenly became a lot smaller. He looked dejected and sad, and Dean hoped that the fight was over, for now. Without saying a word, John grabbed his beer and headed for the stairs.

When he heard a door slam, Dean let out the breath he’d been holding all night. Sam dropped down onto the couch with a grunt, his face in his hands and his shoulders shaking. Dean wanted to comfort him but he felt shell-shocked; this confrontation was somehow much worse than the rest. He thought maybe Sam’s words had hit a little too close to home.

The crowd on the TV erupted in noise as the game ended – Dean had forgotten the thing was on – and for a few minutes, everything was peaceful.

Then all hell broke loose.

SAM

Sam couldn’t remember why the argument had started, exactly. These days it seemed that one word from John had his blood boiling and lip curling, his anger quick to flare up and hard to hide away.

He sat on the couch with his head in his hands, pressing his palms into his eyes until he could see stars. Sam knew Dean was still in the room, standing close by and staring at him; he didn’t want to open his eyes to see Dean’s disappointment, hated to think that he might think less of him for standing up to his dad. He knew that John deserved everything Sam had yelled at him tonight, but he also knew that every disagreement was like a punch to the gut for Dean. Ever since they were little Dean had been the one holding their broken family together, looking out for Sam and following his dad’s orders, the son that Sam could never be.

“Sammy,” Dean said, voice breaking with emotion.

Sam’s response was interrupted by a crash from upstairs, followed by a loud string of expletives.

Sam felt his stomach drop and his mouth go dry, could feel the colour drain from his face as he stood slowly to face the sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Sam could only think of one thing that could cause John to react like that. Dean was looking at Sam in alarm, his eyes questioning and concerned.

John reached the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner into the living room, his face set in the perfect picture of fury, a white sheet of paper held tightly in his fist. He walked towards Sam, stopping a foot away, and shoved the paper in his face.

“What the hell do you call this?” John was fuming, his chest rising and falling with each breath, eyes stony and cold.

“I think you know what it is.” There was a tremor to his words when Sam spoke, and his vision became watery as tears filled his eyes, unbidden. He had been dreading this conversation for months, thinking that if he ignored the problem he’d never have to face it.

“I want to hear you fucking say it, son,” John’s voice was dangerously quiet, his finger stabbing accusingly in Sam’s face to punctuate his words.

Sam breathed in deeply, raising himself to his full height, and let the words he’d been hiding for so long come tumbling out. “It’s a college acceptance letter. I got a place at Stanford. Full ride.”

John smiled, but it was menacing, and it made the hairs rise on the back of Sam’s neck. Dean breathed out audibly, and again Sam found that he couldn’t look at his brother, too afraid of the hurt he’d see there.

Sam had applied to a couple of colleges the year before, hoping school would offer a ticket out of the life he hated so much. He only regretted that Dean was too loyal to his father to conceive of leaving with him; his brother had often been the only thing that kept Sam going when things with John got really bad.

“How the fuck did this happen, Sam? You’re a hunter. I thought we agreed that hunters don’t go to college.” The last word was spat, like it was shameful, a disease.

Sam felt rage surge through him at his father’s words. John had been controlling Sam and Dean since they were kids, making all their decisions for them and expecting them to play along like everything was okay. Sam felt trapped, caged in by expectations and imagined responsibilities, and in that moment he wanted more than anything to be far away from his father.

“No, Dad, you made that decision for me!” Sam’s voice was wrecked, shoulders heavy with the weight of all he was carrying. “I don’t want to be a hunter. I want to go to school, get a job, live a normal life away from guns and ghosts and cheap motels! You know, it’s fucked up that that makes me the crazy one in this family.” Sam did look at Dean then, and the betrayal written plainly across his brother’s face felt like having his lungs ripped out. Sam took a shaky breath and turned back towards his father. John had the same look in his eyes he always got just before ganking a monster, and Sam wondered, as he had many times before, how anyone could treat their kids the way John did.

“You gonna leave us, Sammy? Huh? After everything we’ve done for you?” John snarled, his face mean and his words carving slices in Sam’s skin. “Well you know what? Fuck you. Fuck you, son. You have never wanted to be a part of this family, and I guess this is just proof that we’ll never be good enough for you.”

Sam huffed out a disbelieving laugh that sounded fake and hollow even to his own ears. He grabbed the letter from his father’s hand. “Yeah, well, fuck you, too, Dad.” Sam stormed out of the room and practically sprinted up the stairs, blood pounding in his ears and his heart beating erratically. He was high on adrenaline and he fumbled with the doorknob as he pushed his way into the room he shared with Dean.

Working quickly, he grabbed his duffel bag from under his bed and began stuffing all his worldly possessions into it. He didn’t have much; a few changes of clothes, some books, the small stash of money he’d been saving since he sent off his application to Stanford. Life on the road made travelling light a necessity, and Sam was struck with grief at the abysmal excuse for a life he and Dean had led since they were children.

Rationally, Sam knew that this was the best thing for him, that staying here with his father would only lead to one of them killing the other. But it was difficult to be rational when Dean was stood at the entrance to their room looking completely defeated, hands opening and closing at his sides like he was trying to grasp at the tenuous link that still tethered Sam to him, to the sick idea of home that they had tried to build around themselves.

“Jesus fuck, Sammy. College? I don’t- I can’t believe you’re leaving us. I can’t believe you’re leaving me.” Dean made no effort to hide the way his voice cracked and wavered, barely croaking the words out before he dropped onto his bed and covered his mouth with a hand, eyes big, searching Sam’s face for answers to questions that Sam couldn’t bear to hear.

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I couldn’t- I knew that it would feel like a betrayal to you.” Sam’s eyes filled with tears, but he continued to pack his duffel.

“You’re damn right I feel betrayed. We’re supposed to stick together, Sam, remember? You and me against the world.” Dean’s voice was raised, masking his hurt with anger.

Dean’s eyes flickered over Sam’s face, as though consigning his features to memory.

“I can’t do this anymore, Dean. I can’t be around him. We’ll rip each other’s head off before long.” Sam shook his head, meeting Dean’s gaze and holding it. “This isn’t about you, Dean. I’m leaving because of him.”

Sam grabbed his bag and headed for the door, shoulder brushing Dean’s as he passed by him. He feared that if he remained much longer, if he listened to Dean pleading with him, he would lose his resolve and wind up staying. Sam couldn’t stay here, couldn’t bear being around his father one day longer.

He ran downstairs, Dean following close behind, and found John stood by the front door. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and he was a mess. His face was red – from anger or tears, Sam wasn’t sure – and his hair stuck out from his head where he’d run his hands through it.

“I can’t believe you’re actually going through with this dumb fucking idea. I can’t believe you would do this to me, Sammy.” John took a swig of his beer and swayed a little on the spot, but his eyes were trained on Sam’s and his expression was hard.

“My name is Sam. Get out of my way.” Sam squared his shoulders, trying to look threatening, which was frankly laughable. John was the most terrifying person he knew, even blind drunk. A few words and a pointed look and he could have anyone cowering.

John’s face contorted in an ugly snarl, but he stepped away from the door anyway, gesturing towards it with his hand.

“Fine. You’re free to go, Sam.” John shook his head and took another pull of his drink. Sam cast a look over his shoulder at Dean, who was visibly shaking, head whipping between John and Sam, looking so broken that Sam nearly dropped the bag and pulled him into a hug.

Instead, he stepped towards the door and pulled it open with a trembling hand.

“Son, you go through that door, you’d better not fucking come back.” Sam clenched his jaw and looked over at John. He was staring at the ground now, his words quiet but deadly, making Sam’s stomach drop with apprehension.

Sam took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold.

John laughed darkly. “I don’t fucking believe it.” With that, he turned away and walked down the hall, leaving Sam and Dean alone. Sam heard a bottle smash and the sound of someone punching a wall. He gritted his teeth and felt bile rising at the back of his throat, hardly able to comprehend the enormity of what he was doing.

Sam turned around on the porch, swallowing audibly as he met Dean’s eyes. A myriad emotions flickered across Dean’s face, but the one that stood out to Sam was the faint shadow of resentment. Whether it was caused by jealousy that Sam was getting away from John, or anger that Sam was abandoning Dean, it didn’t matter. He deserved it.

“Dean, I’m-”

“I know, Sammy.” Dean’s voice broke on the last word, and Sam’s heart broke a little bit with it. He wanted to tell Dean that he was sorry, that this wasn’t his fault, and he wanted to thank him for being more like a father to Sam than John had ever been. His words died in his throat.

In that moment, Sam hated John. Hated him for raising Sam and Dean to be hunters, for forcing them into a life neither of them wanted, for depriving them of a happy childhood. Hated him for pushing Sam to the point where the only choice was for him to leave.

Without saying another word, Sam descended the porch steps and headed towards the road. He didn’t look back at Dean as he crossed the yard, knowing it wouldn’t offer either of them any comfort. Sam’s anger had subsided, only to be replaced with an empty feeling that was, in many ways, so much worse.

He hitched a ride with the first car that appeared, and it was only when they started moving down the road that he felt the first tears slide down his cheeks.

He cried all the way to the bus stop. 

DEAN

Dean knew it would be easier to hate Sam, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. He felt hollowed out, stripped bare, and was surprised that the world didn’t stop turning as he watched Sam walking away.

Dean shut the door quietly when Sam’s retreating back finally disappeared from view. He could hear John in the kitchen, muttering drunkenly, so Dean dragged himself to his room – his alone now – and collapsed on his bed. A shuddering sob racked through his body, followed quickly by another, then Dean was crying harder than he ever had before. He cried so hard that he was sore for days afterwards.

Dean had always thought that his heart was immune to breaking, that no girl could ever get close enough to inflict that much pain.

He was wrong. He had been naïve.

Because his little brother had broken his heart, and he wasn’t sure that he would ever be okay again.


End file.
